


Cloak

by goldenthunderstorms (PotatosaurusOfBroadway)



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Angst, Death, Grief/Mourning, Grieving, Height Differences, M/M, Patroclus is dead, Some Fluff, height differences tho, hes alive for some of it tho, its like ancient greek wear your boyfriends hoodie, oh so much angst, some happy bois, then sadness and death, well he dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 03:44:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16468052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PotatosaurusOfBroadway/pseuds/goldenthunderstorms
Summary: After that, it almost became a constant for Patroclus to find Achilles in his cloak—when they were alone of course. He slept in it and whenever he needed comfort and Patroclus was not there, the cloak was the next best thing.Achilles likes to wear Patroclus's cloak





	Cloak

**Author's Note:**

> short n bittersweet  
> hope y'all enjoy!

As Patroclus returned to his tent, he was unsurprised to find Achilles sound asleep. They had had a battle earlier in the day and Achilles had returned covered in an exceptional amount of blood.

What did surprise Patroclus was that Achilles was wrapped up in his cloak. It swallowed him. Achilles was already smaller than him, and considering Patroclus liked his cloak to be extra large since he was never on the battlefield, the cloak was nearly twice the size of Achilles. Achilles had never shown a like for such things before, but Patroclus assumed that Achilles needed a little more comfort than usual these days. These few months of war were not kind to anyone.

Patroclus sat on the edge of their bed where Achilles slept. He gently combed his fingers through his golden hair, still damp from bathing. He did this for a moment, enjoying the sight of Achilles so small and peaceful. He rarely let his guard down in such a way. It was rare anyone but Patroclus saw Achilles this way, when he was not  _ Aristos Achaion _ .

Soon Achilles woke, gazing up at Patroclus and smiling. “Hello,” He greeted, voice raspy as he sat up.

“I hope I did not wake you.” Patroclus said softly, smoothing hair from Achilles’s face.

Achilles shook his head. “It is about time I woke up anyhow.”

“Why are you wrapped up in my cloak?” Patroclus could not help asking, fingering the hem of the fabric.

Achilles smiled sheepishly. “It smells like you. You and I rarely cross paths until night. Then we are too tired to do anything but sleep. I merely wanted to feel close to you.”

Patroclus felt a tightness in his chest and he smiled as well. Achilles sits up and Patroclus presses a kiss to his forehead. “It has been a time since we have been together, hasn’t it?”

“Too long a time,” Achilles muttered in agreement.

Patroclus took Achilles into his arms, pressing his face into his golden hair. “I hope this is a better substitute for the cloak.”

Achilles hummed, pulling the cloak around the two of them and laying his head on Patroclus’s chest. “You are no substitute, Patroclus. You are the real thing, the best thing.”

 

After that, it almost became a constant for Patroclus to find Achilles in his cloak—when they were alone of course. He slept in it often and whenever he needed comfort and Patroclus was not there, the cloak was the next best thing.

“It might as well be yours, Achilles.” Patroclus said one night as they readied for bed and Achilles wrapped himself in Patroclus’s cloak like a blanket.

Achilles shook his head. “No, because then it will not smell like you anymore. That is why I like it.” As if to reaffirm his point, Achilles pressed his nose into the fabric of the cloak.

“I rarely have use for it.”

“Which is why we must have it in bed so it does not lose its smell.”

Patroclus chuckled, “I fear you are beginning to hold more affection for that cloak than you do for me.” He teased, sitting beside Achilles on their bed.

Achilles scoffed. “Never,” he shook his head. He pushed the cloak off of his shoulders and moved to straddle Patroclus’s lap. 

“No?” Patroclus raised an eyebrow. “I am not being replaced by the cloak?”

“Please,” Achilles snorts, “could I do this with the cloak?” He kisses Patroclus’s neck and even though it was nothing new, Patroclus shivers as if it is the first time again. Patroclus brings his hands to the small of Achilles’s back and Achilles smiles, pressing back against his touch. “Or this?” Achilles brings his hand down to Patroclus’s thighs. “Or this?”

This and this and this. Achilles did not need the cloak that night, kept warm by and surrounded by the smell of Patroclus.

 

The pyre was burned, the body returned, but it was not enough. It had done nothing to abate Achilles’s grief. If anything, his grief was worsened. Patroclus was  _ gone _ , none of him left to hold, dead or alive. Their bed was empty, the small surface now seeming far too big.

Achilles choked on a sob. There was no more Patroclus, his large frame taking up more than his fair share of the bed. No more of him apologizing with a grin and offering to share as he pulled Achilles into bed and they fell asleep in each other’s arms.

Achilles laid on the bed, tears coming to his eyes again. In a way it still smelled like him, but it also did not. It was stale, a sad phantom of Patroclus and his calming scent. The longing felt worse than any blade that would kill him; oh, how Achilles longed for that fateful moment. He longed for the release of the spear and to be reunited with his love. But he was not fortunate enough yet.  _ Yet. _

_ What has Hector ever done to me?  _ Achilles laughed at that now, almost hysterically. Hector had murdered all that mattered in the world: the best of men, best of Myrmidons. Patroclus.

Achilles did not stop them as tears rolled down his cheeks. He sat up, his breaths shallow. When not in battle, he was so easily fatigued. Perhaps his starvation was slowly sucking the life from him.

He wished it would work faster.

Achilles gripped the sheets tightly, eyes darting around the tent. Something,  _ anything,  _ to ease the pain. His eyes caught on the cloak that sat on a table. It was folded so neatly, Achilles knew Patroclus had done it. How long ago had it been since Patroclus had been alive in this tent? A week? Two? Achilles was not sure. What did it matter now? He would be dead soon. Time did not matter to a dead man.

He stood, shakily walking over to the table. He picked up the cloak and brought it to his face. It was soft and it smelled like  _ him.  _ It smelled like Patroclus, strong as if Patroclus had worn it yesterday.

The smell brought more tears from Achilles and he sobbed again. He was wracked with sobs, falling to his knees.

“Patroclus,” he whispered, “Patroclus,  _ please _ .”

For what he was begging he did not know. It was not to have Patroclus back. Achilles knew that could not be done. His mother had made that adamantly clear.

_ I am glad that he is dead. _

Achilles drew in a shuddering breath and wrapped the cloak around his body. His sobs only worsened. There was no consoling him. Only death could do that. Perhaps when he returned to battle—in a few days, the word was—he would be relieved.

But until then, he only had this feeble comfort. He had his lover’s cloak, wrapped around his shoulders. He had the knowledge that this was no longer the substitute or stand-in. Patroclus would not walk into the tent that night and push the cloak off of him and kiss his forehead. Patroclus would not wipe his tears away, smother the sobs in his arms, or kiss away the pain. This was all that was left. No body, no ghost, just an urn full of ashes and a cloak.


End file.
